The Road Less Traveled
by Lil black dog
Summary: Why did Leonard McCoy become a doctor?  He came from a long line of physicians, but it wasn't always his first career choice, or was it?  Written for the 'Pathways' challenge at Ad Astra.


**A/N:** Why did Leonard McCoy become a doctor? He came from a long line of physicians, but it wasn't always his first career choice, or was it? Written for the 'Pathways' challenge at Ad Astra.

Don't ask me why, but of late my Muse seems intent on putting Leonard McCoy through hell. Go figure...

Beta: As usual, T'Paya and Mackenzie Calhoun came to my rescue. :D

**The Road Less Traveled**

_Relax_, he admonished himself silently. _This is what you wanted, the path you chose. If you want to learn to make a difference in the lives of others, it has to start somewhere._

He held the laser scalpel tightly in his right hand, poised over the abdomen of his patient, chewing his lower lip in concentration. He willed his hand not to shake. How ironic that his first solo surgery upon graduation from med school would be to address the issue that had helped solidify his career choice those eight long years ago – what now seemed like a lifetime away from the present…

oooOOOooo

"Wait! Slow down," he called playfully, loping after the lithe brunette in front of him. His pleas were answered by a girlish giggle, the patter of her bare feet muffled by the lush grass as they raced across the fallow field. A burst of speed brought him alongside her and he grabbed her about the waist, halting their progress, turning her toward him, pressing their bodies close, leaning toward those luscious, full lips.

Her hand on his shoulder thrust them apart. "Lenny, what are you doing? We can still see the house. What if momma, or daddy, is looking out the window? You know he's got a basement full of antique firearms, and knows how to use them. 'Pump someone full of lead' might be just an expression these days, but for my daddy it's a stark reality. And protecting the innocence of his little girl would certainly be just cause for him to do so." She smacked him playfully on the chest, her eager grin and smoldering eyes belying her words.

Glancing nervously over his shoulder, he stepped away from her, his hand slipping from her slender waist, finding and intertwining her fingers with his own instead. He pointed with his chin toward the peach orchard in the distance. "No one will see us in there," he said huskily, his eyes roaming hungrily over her heaving chest.

To her credit, she flushed, despite the fact that they were no strangers to one another. "You're so _naughty_," she said, a coy smile stretched over perfect, white teeth, squeezing his hand urgently, glancing up at him through veiled lashes.

Feeling a sudden heat, starting in his groin and spreading pleasantly along his limbs, he set off determinedly for the row of trees in the distance, tugging her along with him.

oooOOOooo

Afterward, they lay together in the soft carpet of green, her head pillowed on his shoulder, a supple leg splayed casually over his. His bare back pressed into the sun-warmed grass, he had one arm draped loosely over her waist, his other hand absently stroking her soft, chestnut-brown tresses. The late spring air was warm, the breeze gentle, carrying the scent of freshly-cut hay and the lazy symphony created by the incessant buzzing of insect wings. The trees above them were heavy with newly-formed fruit, the small, fuzzy orbs still green and hard. In a few months, coaxed along by the intense rays of the Southern sun, they would transform into the juicy, flavorful delicacy for which Georgia was known.

He couldn't believe his good fortune. She was the prettiest girl in high school, came from one of the oldest and most prestigious families in the State. She could easily be dating anyone she chose, and yet had been with him, in every sense of the word, for the last six months. She nuzzled into his neck, throwing an arm around his shoulders, a contented sigh escaping from lips flushed with their recent lovemaking.

"That was nice," she crooned. "Whatever am I going to do when you go off to college in the fall? You'll probably meet another girl and forget all about me," she pouted.

"Well, I've been thinking about that," he admitted, his hand trailing down her back, landing on her firm buttocks, tenderly pressing her to him. What if I didn't go off to Johns Hopkins; stayed here and went to the University of Georgia instead?"

She shifted against him. "Why ever would you want to do that? You've already accepted a billet at Hopkins. They have one of the best premed programs in the country, and doing your undergrad there would almost guarantee you a spot in their med school. Your future would be set."

"What would you say if I told you I've decided I don't want to study medicine?" he asked.

"But Lenny, medicine's in your blood. Don't you wanna be a doctor like your daddy, and granddaddy?" she asked, completely nonplussed.

"No!" came the forceful reply. He'd seen firsthand the hours his father, and grandfather, had put into running their practices: Called out at all hours of the night, almost never getting to share a family meal without interruption during the holidays, missing so many milestones in their children's lives. As a young boy, he'd been thoroughly enraptured by their stories of close calls, patients literally brought back from the dead, the challenges that went with holding the life of another in your hands, but that image had quickly tarnished as he saw less and less of his father during his formative years.

As his own father's presence in his life had continued to dwindle, his best friend's father, Mister Tatum, had begun to fill that void, until that man's life ended tragically and abruptly in a drowning accident when Leonard was eight. Not only had Mister Tatum been taken from him that day, but the man's only son, Forrest, had succumbed to the angry waters of the Atlantic as well, Leonard watching the horrific scene unfold from the safety of the beach. The loss had been almost too much for the young boy to process. For the longest time he had blamed his own father for not being there that day to help the two victims. Several years had passed before he came to understand that his father couldn't have made a difference on that ill-fated occasion – one couldn't resuscitate bodies that had never been found.

And he was no stranger to tragedy – it had plagued him throughout his young life. When he was thirteen his grandfather had died of a brain aneurism, collapsing at work in the hospital one day, no amount of skilled professionals instantly on hand or medical machines at their disposal able to bring the senior McCoy back from the brink of death. Once again, his father had been elsewhere; performing surgery in the same hospital, he'd saved the patient on whom he'd been working while his own father lay dying. In that instant it had become clear to young Leonard that medicine was not an infallible science; that sometimes people died no matter what you did, and he'd decided then and there he didn't ever want to find himself in that position; didn't want to be responsible for telling family members that their loved one was never coming back.

Additionally, he planned to be there for his children – all six of them – and he hoped he'd be able to convince Jocelyn to help him with that goal. He'd choose a profession that would be engaging to his scientific mind, yet allow him to be home with his wife and children – professor, or research scientist perhaps – something with regular nine to five hours. Keenly aware of the prolonged absences of his own father, it was something he just wasn't prepared to put his future family through.

It had been ugly when he went to his father a few weeks ago, announcing his intentions. David McCoy had been incensed upon learning that Leonard had given up his slot at Hopkins, first blaming the decision on Jocelyn, and then on a rebellious streak. "If you want to throw your life away, that's your business," his father had declared adamantly, "Just don't do it for some hussy who is only interested in you for your potential earnings, and the prestige your future profession can bring to a washed-up, genteel family."

He'd stalked out of the room, angry beyond words, afraid of what he might do, or say. His father simply didn't understand; he and Jocelyn were in love – it didn't matter to her in the least what his prospective vocation would be; all that mattered was that they were together. She loved him for who he was – or so he had thought at the time.

"It takes too much time away from what's really important in life – the time a man spends with his family. I don't want to be that guy. I want to be there for you and the children we'll have someday." He pressed his lips to the top of her head. "I love you, Joss," he blurted out suddenly, unable to rein in the flood of emotion pressing him at the moment.

She raised herself on an elbow, bright green eyes meeting steely blue ones, a frown of confusion marring her brow, mouth open to speak, when her words were interrupted by a guttural scream. They were instantly on their feet, she rearranging her blouse, tucking it into the short skirt that had been hiked up over her hips, he hurriedly tugging his shirt over his head, at first afraid they had somehow been caught.

Shading his eyes from the midday sun, Leonard searched for the source of the inhuman sound. His eyes came to rest on a large hay baler, several fields over, its engine running, white clouds of steam pouring from the exhaust pipe above its cab, but not moving. "There," he said, pointing, then grasping Jocelyn's hand as the two set off at a dead run for the lumbering piece of farm equipment.

Thirty long seconds later they arrived at the scene. Jocelyn went white, dry heaves wracking her slender form, as they saw the blood-covered body lying behind the idling machine. Leonard immediately took charge. "Joss, go get help," he said in a remarkably calm voice. "I'll stay with him until you get back."

She nodded, unable to speak, casting another frightened glance at the pain-wracked face of the man on the ground before bolting for the house. Instinct took over as he first turned the machine off, and then knelt beside the injured man. "Jackson," he said, grasping the farm worker's hand, "It's gonna be all right. Help is on the way."

Frightened eyes met his. "Lenny, thank God. You come from a family of doctors. You'll know what to do. Please help me; I don't want to die here." An arm, ending in a bloody stump, pawed at the front of his shirt, blood gushing liberally from the mangled extremity with each beat of the man's heart.

Leonard knew enough not to try to move the injured man. "Easy, Jackson; you'll be okay," he said with conviction, wishing he believed the words himself. Stripping off his shirt again, he tore a thick strip from the bottom; tied it tightly about the man's upper arm. The flow of blood slowed to an intermittent trickle. Visually assessing the man before him, he could see no other severe external wounds. He breathed a sigh of relief; his patient would not die from traumatic blood loss.

"Jackson, what happened?" he asked, knowing it was important to keep the man awake and talking.

"Something was clogging the machine," the injured man answered weakly. "Stupid not to turn it off first, but I saw a large branch stuck in there. When I pulled on it, instead of coming loose it sucked me further into the hopper. It took everything I had to break free of it…" Tears started to well up in the wide, brown eyes.

"Never mind, it doesn't matter," Leonard assured him, grasping the man's shoulder with one hand, the other once again locking securely onto Jackson's remaining hand. "They'll be able to fix you up, no sweat." The eighteen-year-old flashed what he hoped was a reassuring grin.

"Lenny, do me a favor; please find my hand so they can put it back on."

Leonard felt a sudden tightness in his chest, a painful stricture in his throat, heat building behind his eyes. "The rescue workers will get it, don't worry," he squeezed out in an unsteady voice. Judging from the state of the man's forearm, he doubted there was anything left of the hand but bits and pieces of mangled flesh and bone.

He deftly shifted the topic. "Jackson, how's Savannah doing? She's what – fifteen now?" Savannah was Jackson's only child, a bright, precocious girl he'd been raising alone for the last ten years, ever since her mother had been killed in a flitter accident.

A strained smile touched the injured man's lips. "She's doing great. Her momma would be so proud. She made Dean's List again last marking period, did you know?" Leonard shook his head. "And she got the lead in the summer production of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' Gonna play Titania. She's grown into a beautiful young woman; looks so much like her momma." A tear traced a path through the grime on the man's cheek. He continued to speak, but the words had stopped registering with the boy at his side. As Leonard watched, the color drained from the man's face, a cold sweat peppering his brow, the shaky, breathy voice becoming ever weaker.

Jackson's litany stopped abruptly. "Lenny, are you still there? I can't see you." The voice was now tinged with panic, the mutilated stump reaching for him.

"I'm right here, Jackson," he assured the man, pressing the good hand firmly between both of his own.

"I'm so cold," the prone form blurted out suddenly, his voice now little more than a whisper.

Leonard could hear the sirens in the distance. "Hold on, Jackson," he pleaded. "Stay with me. They'll be here any second." But one glance at the vacant, staring eyes told him it would be several seconds too late. He was sobbing uncontrollably when the rescue workers arrived, uttering a string of apologies to the injured man for not being able to do more, and to his daughter, who was now completely on her own. Strong arms tugged him to his feet, pried his fingers away from the dead man's remaining hand, gently steered him away from the cooling corpse.

oooOOOooo

The autopsy had revealed a crushed pelvis and numerous other, insurmountable internal injuries. It was speculated that once the jam had been cleared, the machine continued to make the large, half-ton round bale, which when spit out of the back of the baler upon completion, rolled over the downed man causing grievous, fatal injuries. While the tourniquet had been the right call for the damaged arm, his father assured him nothing could have been done to stem the flow of profuse internal bleeding – the final insult which ultimately cost Jackson his life. The elder McCoy's words did nothing to assuage the terrible grief, the overwhelming sense of inadequacy and responsibility Leonard felt. He vowed then and there that he'd never allow himself to be in a position again where he didn't know what to do in a life-or-death situation.

He'd wanted to take the road less traveled, shake off the expectations of his family and march to the beat of his own drum, but Jocelyn had been right; medicine was in his blood, much as he'd tried to deny it. For years he'd felt like that career path was being thrust upon him, the pressure to deliver almost unbearable, but the sheer frustration and helplessness overwhelming him at the moment Jackson had died made him realize that wasn't the case. Despite the personal sacrifices he'd be called upon to make in the future, in the end he came to understand it was what he truly wanted. Being a physician, a surgeon, was his calling; his first, best destiny, and at some point in his life, he'd regret it bitterly if he didn't pursue that career path.

Besides, he'd been confident that he could learn from the mistakes of the previous generations of McCoys; find the means to transcend their shortcomings. He'd be able to strike that balance that had so eluded those who had preceded him; devise a way to juggle family and career so that neither suffered from lack of attention. Sadly, he'd been fooling himself. He and Jocelyn had married when he graduated from college. Joanna had come along unexpectedly during his first year of med school, and while he knew he wanted more children, Jocelyn had insisted they wait until their lives bordered on some semblance of normal. It had been a wise decision. Despite his best efforts, the purest and most altruistic of intentions, the demands and rigors of medicine were taking their toll. Long hours of study in school were being replaced by long hours on call at the hospital – time away from the two most important people in his life. Time he'd never be able to get back.

As it turned out, Jocelyn _had_ been swayed by the promise of power and prestige within the community that would come along with his position as a surgeon, but as of yet, she'd seen little to none of that. And she'd seen even less of her husband. Her patience was starting to wear thin, her eye starting to roam. At a time when they needed each other the most, they were growing further and further apart. Joanna was almost four now, and he doubted he'd be able to keep his little family together until she made it to five…

These images faded from his mind as he once again became aware of the weight of the instrument in his hand, the unmarred abdomen centered in his field of vision. Despite the personal trials now facing him, he knew there was nowhere else he'd rather be, nothing else he'd rather be doing. Blocking out everything else, his mind snapped into razor-sharp focus as he raised the scalpel, preparing to stem the flow of the internal bleeding that was putting this patient's life at risk, once and for all setting his feet firmly on the path his life would now take.


End file.
